


The Prince and the Gardener

by AMorePermanentDestination



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Dancing, Fluff, Greg and Philip are knights, I'll keep adding tags as I publish more chapters, M/M, Medieval!Lock, Prince!lock, Slow Burn, Swimming, Teenlock, The Abominable Bride, fairy tale, some body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5014369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMorePermanentDestination/pseuds/AMorePermanentDestination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince William Of Holm has grown up pampered and isolated, in a palace where he has no friends or anyone to bond with. This all changes when he meets the young palace gardener, a boy who eventually becomes even more than just a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, one more multi-chapter sappy love story!

Once upon a time there was a young prince named William. Throughout William's childhood, he was always very lonely. His brother Mycroft was off in the academy learning how to be a good ruler, and his mother, tired of the king's selfish stubbornness, had abandoned him when William was still a toddler. The king, however, had loved her very much, and after she left he grew bitter and spiteful. 

Blinded by his pain and wanting to protect his young son from suffering similar hurt, he did everything he could to make it impossible for William to make friends, and, heaven forbid, fall in love. He made sure that every servant in the palace never spoke to William or interacted with him in anyway other than to obey orders and took care that those that were forced to spend more time near the prince, such as the butler and waiters, were all old men so as to discourage William from seeking friendship with them. He forbade William from going outside of the palace walls, and preached to him often about the dangers of love. 

Until he was fourteen years old, William had had no friends and barely any human interaction save for his classes every day with his grouchy, old teacher and dinner every night with his father. One day, he was playing outside alone, kicking his ball against the wall and retrieving it as it bounced back to him. After a particularly fierce kick, the ball soared over the stone wall and disappeared behind it. This had already happened before many times, and he knew that he would simply have to ask for a new ball that evening. He wandered around the courtyard, looking for something else to capture his interest. He found a small ant hill and amused himself for a few minutes by carefully poking each ant that appeared with a stick until it no longer moved, but he quickly grew tired of this activity. 

As he stood up and brushed the dirt off of his velvet-clad knees, he caught sight of a man – a boy, really – approaching him. He looked strange, hair a dirty blond instead of the grey and white that William was so used to seeing around the palace and a tanned and ruddy young face. He couldn't have been more than a few years William's senior, yet his arms were already strong and his shoulders broad. 

"Um, is this yours?" William, preoccupied by the boy himself, had not noticed that he held the missing ball in his hand. 

"Yes, it is." The prince accepted his ball, and seeing by the boy's suntanned complexion and calloused hands that he was a palace gardener, put out his hand for him to kiss. Shockingly, the boy instead squeezed it and gave it a firm shake.  
"I'm John, nice to meet you." 

"I-I'm—" William stuttered. "Sherlock." Despite his rather telltale dress, John clearly hadn't recognized him as the prince of Holm, and he felt a sudden urge to keep it that way. Instead of giving his first name, which would of course inform the boy of his identity, he chose his middle name, a name that he had always preferred over William. When he was younger, he became envious of his brother Mycroft's interesting first name and tried to get his father to call him Sherlock, but the king had refused and now he finally saw his chance. 

"Well, I can't stay, I've got work to do. I'll see you around, I suppose," John wiped his glistening forehead on his sleeve. 

"Perhaps." Without returning the wave, William turned on his heel and hurried behind some hedges. He didn't want to give John time to look more closely at him and figure out who he really was. He had now gotten his ball back (or rather, John had gotten his ball back) but he no longer felt like playing outside. He returned to the palace quietly, walking through the many halls and empty rooms. He could hear little rustles in the tapestries as he walked, the clicks of closing doors and taps of retreating footsteps as servants shrank away from his sight. This was something that he supposed had always been this way yet he had never been as aware of it until now. 

With still several hours until supper, William decided to go to the trophy room and play a game he had invented for when he was bored and alone. He would choose an interesting item, look at it and observe it very carefully, then come up with a story for it. After surveying the numerous objects in the room, he chose what appeared to be some sort of war bugle made out of an animal horn and got to work. By taking note of the wear of the keratin, the rust on certain metal parts, the lack of rust on others, and any small cracks or blemishes, he was able to put together a possible, even likely, story behind the instrument and it's user. 

Just then, there was a knock on the door. William called out a dismissive "Enter!", slightly peeved at the interruption.  
A page opened the door and peered in. "Prince William, His Majesty the King has requested your presence in the upper drawing room." 

William rolled his eyes and begrudgingly put down the bugle. He followed the page to the lavish upper drawing room, where his father was sitting upon a large, velvet armchair. "Sire, you asked for me?"  
"Sit down." The king gestured to a much smaller but similarly decorated chair in front of him. William complied and waited for his father to speak.

"As you know, your brother is now coming to the age where he will be taking up many of the kingdom's duties. Soon he will be returning to the castle to begin his work here." He paused, and William nodded, eager to be finished with this seemingly unnecessary conversation. 

"Which means that he will have to choose a princess to take as a wife." The prince was sure he must have grimaced at the idea. Mycroft, married to a princess? That was an amusing thought. However, William knew that this whole princess business would create a hubbub in the entire kingdom, mainly in the palace itself. He already was dreading having countless strangers and silly princesses prancing about his home.  
"When?" William asked, referring to his brother's return. 

"Mycroft is due to arrive in four days. He's already started his journey back."  
William looked at the carpet in dismay, realizing that his time in the gardens earlier would be one of his last chances to be by himself for a while. Not wanting to waste anymore of his precious time, he fidgeted in his chair until he knew his father would dismiss him, which he did. No longer interested in returning to his deductions, he headed to the royal kennel to visit his dog, Redbeard. The dog had been a gift from his mother before she left, so he wouldn't be lonely in the palace, and William had always felt a special bond with him. He liked to think that there was a little piece of the queen in Redbeard watching over him as he grew up. 

The king didn't want the dog in the palace itself, but William often sneaked Redbeard into his room and persuaded the nanny to keep quiet by threatening to mention her secret visits to the city where she would meet her lover to the king. He did so now, carefully tying a guide around Redbeard's shaggy neck and leading him into the palace through the servants' door in the back. He took him into his room and took a few pillows off of his bed, laying them on the floor to make a cushion for Redbeard. He found the book he was reading and lay curled up against his dog until the dinner gong sounded. 

 

Dinner was lackluster, as usual. He sat through the four courses hardly uttering more than two words and was glad to be excused immediately after dessert. With a roll in his pocket for Redbeard, he returned to his room to get ready for bed. After he had changed into his blue silk pyjamas and pushed his dog under the bed and draped a blanket over him, the nanny knocked on the door as she always did. She shuffled in, her wrinkled skin hanging off of her bones, with his glass of warm milk in hand. He took the tray and dismissed her, not wanting poor Redbeard to suffocate beneath the blanket. When she was gone, he rescued the dog and patted the mattress for him to jump up. 

William turned off the light and positioned himself so his head was lying on Redbeard's shaggy side, his dark curls tangling with the auburn fur. He stroked Redbeard's ears as the old dog tried to lick his wrists and fingers, and then William began to talk to him. He told him about the boy, John, whom he had met earlier that day, and how John was so different than what he had expected other young people would be, and how now there was one person in the world who didn't know him as Prince William of Holm, one person who didn't act awkward and submissive towards him. He found himself wanting to prove that he was more than just his title and his royalty, that he was also just a boy. He fell asleep thinking about his new friend and hoping that he would see him again. 

That night, or perhaps very early in the morning, William awoke, itchy and wet. Horrified, he saw that his pyjamas were plastered to his legs and his sheets were soaked through. Redbeard lifted his head in the commotion, gazing calmly past his greying whiskers to the dilemma that was happening. Embarrassed, William didn't call for the nanny or anybody else, he just peeled off his pyjamas, got into a new pair, and threw some pillows and a blanket on the floor. He was so ashamed of himself for wetting the bed at his age (for that was surely what had happened), something that he hadn't done for many years, and he returned to an uncomfortable sleep for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't actually written very far in advance so I have no idea how frequently I will update or if I will finish it at all. Thanks for reading, and leave a kudo or a comment (and hopefully inspire me to continue writing)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more characters are introduced, and some 'brotherly bonding' occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a filler chapter, sorry! The next one will be more interesting, I promise.  
> (Also, apologies for any weird formatting or typos, I'm on mobile and it gets messed up really easily)

For the next few days William brooded, not really wanting to do anything in particular. He spent most of his time in the gardens with Redbeard hoping to see John, but the older boy never showed up. Before he knew it, Mycroft's carriage had arrived at the palace gates and the chaos had begun. It was declared that Mycroft would now be in charge of the knights of the kingdom, and he wanted to start his new job as soon as possible. In the flurry of events and changes, William sulked by himself, both glad and jealous that his brother was getting all of the attention. 

The second night after Mycroft's return William was in his room with Redbeard again when there was a curt knock on the door. He granted the entrance, expecting a servant or the nanny, but was unpleasantly surprised when his brother appeared in the doorway. 

"William." He could hardly recognize the older prince anymore. His reddish-brown hair was already receding despite his mere twenty-two years of age, and he looked more tired than William remembered.  
"Mycroft." He mimicked his brother's tone, uttering the name as if it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. 

"May I… come in?" Mycroft gave a slightly forced-looking smile. 

"My doors are always open to you, brother dear." 

The older brother frowned but entered, clicking the door shut behind him. He sat stiffly in the rocking chair by the window, his frown deepening when he spotted Redbeard's furry body lying on the bed.  
"How can I help you." William made no effort to correct his sprawled position over his sheets. 

"As you know, I'm starting work with the knights tomorrow morning. I was wondering… that is, would you like to come with me? I need to evaluate the men that we have now and look into recruiting new ones, and I could use your help." 

William raised his eyebrows. "You want my help?" He couldn't help but think there must be some catch to it. 

"As much as it pains me to say it, yes. I think, with the both of us, we will be more likely to produce an accurate report and make better decisions." Mycroft gave another thin, strained smile. 

Now William knew what was going on. His brother was afraid of letting something slip past him in his evaluations and show incompetence so early in the job. As much as he wanted to say no and let Mycroft get in trouble, he was dying of boredom and had nothing planned for the next day so he agreed, making sure not to sound too enthusiastic. 

 

The next morning William woke up earlier than he usually did and headed down to the dining hall where Mycroft was already having breakfast. They exchanged nothing but little nods and quickly ate in silence. When they both were finished, they headed to the training grounds where they would meet the knights of the palace. 

When they arrived, the men were all standing or sitting on the ground in what appeared to have been somewhat orderly rows but now looked lazy and disorganized. William caught his brother wrinkling his nose, already unimpressed. 

One knight leapt to his feet and approached them, bowing deeply before their feet. "You are…" Mycroft muttered, examining the log he held in his hand, "Sir Gregory of Lestrade, I presume?" 

"At your service, Your Highness." The knight's affirmation was met with another frown. 

"I see. Well, I would like you to arrange your men in a queue so I may speak with each individually in the tent. Any who are higher in rank should go first." 

"Your Highness." He bowed again, then turned on his heel and began to shout at the others, who lethargically came together into a sloppy line. 

Mycroft's frown deepened, but he gestured for William to follow him into the small tent that had been erected beside the training grounds. 

"I can't say I'm stepping into this tent with a terrible amount of optimism…" Mycroft remarked. The younger prince smirked and sat next to his brother behind the small desk that was placed in the center of the tent. 

Only a few moments after Mycroft had arranged his log book and papers and taken out a quill and well, the front flap of the tent opened and the soldier they had spoken to earlier appeared. William couldn't remember his name: something with a G… Graham? 

Mycroft sighed. "You again?"  
"Well, your Highness, I'm the highest ranking man here," the knight grinned, showing large, white teeth. 

"Of course." Mycroft flipped through the log and dipped his quill into the ink. "Name?" 

"Sir Gregory of Lestrade." 

"Age?" 

"Two and twenty." 

"Years in service?" 

"Four." 

"Do you enjoy your work here?" 

The knight didn't bat an eye at the slightly unconventional question. "Very much so, your Highness." 

"And are your men to your satisfaction?"

"For the most part. They're lazy bastards, the lot of them, but we make do." 

"I'm sure you do." William could sense his brother's displeasure at the coarse language, but he kept his mouth shut.  
"Thank you for your time. You may send in whoever is next."

"Thank you, your Highnesses. It's always a pleasure to work with you both." Sir Gregory bowed to each of them before ducking out of the tent. 

"One down, twenty-four left to go." Mycroft sighed and shuffled his papers. "And I'm sure we're going to get much worse than the likes of him," he added, warily eyeing the opening of the tent just before a second knight walked in. 

He had greasy black hair and what seemed to be a permanently snide, pinched expression, like he had just caught a whiff of some terrible stench. 

"Your name?" Mycroft prepared his quill again. 

"Sir Philip, son of Anders." 

"Age?" 

"Five and twenty." 

"Years in service?" 

"Two." 

As Mycroft continued to go through the questions, William stopped bothering to listen, instead taking a look at the knight himself. Clearly nervous, he was sweating lightly despite the obvious lack of recent physical exertion and the chilly temperature. When Sir Philip left, William exchanged a glance with his brother, and he knew that they had both concluded that they had just spoken to a less-than-ideal member of the knight guild. 

 

About an hour and a half later, they were finally finished with the evaluations. They'd gone outside to observe some physical training routines, which were unsatisfactorily mediocre. William was itching to leave, because when they were outside he'd caught sight of the gardener boy rolling a wheelbarrow down the path, most likely towards the lake. Since he hadn't seen a return, John was probably still there, and William desperately wanted to go catch up to him. 

After quickly making an excuse for having to do some work for his tutor, he left Mycroft and followed the path in the direction John had gone. His stomach felt kind of weird, like his insides were shifting and twisting around, and he hoped fervently he wasn't getting sick. That would mean he would have to stay in bed, and therefore would eliminate any possibility of seeing his new friend. For some reason, that thought made his stomach flip even more. 

After a few minutes of walking briskly down the dirt path, he arrived at the shore of the lake. He was relieved to see John crouched on the ground, pulling at some roots with gloved hands. William's gut turned a somersault, and he had a brief moment of indecision: maybe John wanted to be alone? Maybe this was a bad idea.  
Before he had time to make up his mind, he saw a shift in the gardener's crouch and in the split second before it happened, William knew John was about to turn around and catch sight of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who left kudos and comments, they really inspired me to keep writing. I hadn't worked on this for a while, but when I saw all the wonderful comments I got myself back into the story!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the previous ones, sorry about that. Also, I haven't proofread it very carefully (if at all) so expect plenty of typos.

John raised his head, peering over his shoulder at William. The prince froze, a moment of indecision tearing through his mind. Quickly gathering himself, he stepped out from the bushes that he had been partly hidden behind. 

“Good afternoon,” he said nonchalantly.   
John stood, brushing the dirt off his knees. His face was flushed and red, possibly from the leaning position he had previously been in, and his blond hair was disheveled and saturated with sweat. “Good afternoon, Sherlock. Fancy seeing you here,” John took off his gloves and stuck them in his back pocket. 

“Indeed. And what are you up to?” William carefully diverted the conversation away from himself. 

“I'm trying to start preparing for a new well that might be set up. There's this terrible root, though,” John gestured to the hole he'd been digging, where sure enough, William could see a thick root crossing through the middle. 

An awkward silence fell upon them. William cleared his throat and said, “I haven't seen you for a few days.” It came out more needy and accusatory than he had planned, and he hoped John wouldn't notice. 

“Yeah, I've been pretty busy. I've got to get all the early plants in as quickly as possible so they can bloom before the summer ends.” 

William nodded. “I need a break, though,” John continued. “You want to, I dunno, go for a swim?” 

William directed his attention to the lake, which was surely filled with all kinds of germs and bacteria. Although his tutor taught him all kinds of facts and formulas (many of which he already knew, of course), he had never taught the young prince how to swim. “I, uh, I don't have bathing clothes.” He protested. 

“Nor do I,” John pulled off his shirt, then started unbuttoning his trousers. William widened his eyes in surprise but quickly averted them politely. 

“I don't know how to swim.” He hadn't meant to say it, but somehow it had just slipped out. He cursed himself, knowing that usually he was so good at making sure things like this never happened. 

He could hear John stepping closer, his bare feet padding softly over the spongy ground. “It's okay if you don't want to swim,” he said. “But I can teach you. To swim. That is, if you want.”

William felt a smile creeping across his lips, which he hid under his lowered face. He wanted to accept the offer, but he couldn't make himself do it. “No, but thanks. I'll just watch.” 

“Okay mate, your loss.” William heard a splash as the gardener slipped into the water. He gave it a couple more seconds before looking up and taking a seat against a broad tree trunk. 

John was submerged nearly up to his shoulders, and his hair was now dark from the wetness. “It's great,” he called. “You could certainly stand here.” 

William blushed and shook his head. Not only was he unable to swim, but he didn't think he would be comfortable disrobing in front of the other boy. 

“I'm going to get you into the water at some point,” John yelled. He began swimming in circles, back and forth across the mouth of the small clearing where William was seated. “If not today, then next time. If not next time, then the time after that.” He added between strokes. Despite his short build, William noted that the gardener was surprisingly graceful as he swam, the muscles in his arms visibly stretching and bunching together as they contracted. The prince felt another twinge in his gut as he realized that what John had said implied that this would, without a doubt, be a repeated event. 

 

About a half-hour later, John had just about finished drying off and they were both sitting on a large, sunny rock right at the water’s edge. Conversation became easier, despite the awkward beginning. 

“When I was little,” John was saying. “I wanted to be a knight.” He had put on his trousers, but his chest was still bare, and William had watched inconspicuously as the sun slowly dried of his glistening, tanned skin. John would be a good model for a muscular anatomy lesson, the prince decided. He wouldn't even have to be skinned, all the muscle groups were clearly defined already. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah.” John ran a hand through his damp hair, spiking it straight up not unlike a hedgehog’s. “I thought there wasn't any job more honourable than serving the king and the princes. 

For the first time, William — Sherlock, that is — felt a touch of guilt for not telling his friend about who he really was. 

“And why didn't you become a knight?” Sherlock asked, once again turning the conversation to John. 

“You know. Poor family, no noble blood, sister to take care of. It was just a hopeless seven-year-old fantasy.” 

Sherlock thought about the soldiers that he and Mycroft had spoken to earlier that morning. Surely John would make a better knight than any of them… 

“Well, I've been idling for far too long, I'd better get back to work.” John clambered up and stepped off the boulder, shrugging back into his shirt. 

“Okay.” Sherlock, too, stepped back onto the damp earth. 

“I'll see you later,” John said. “And next time you're going to learn how to swim,” he added with a bright grin. 

Sherlock nodded, turning away before John could see him blush. “Until next time, then.” 

“Until next time.” This final farewell was followed by the sound of a shovel being imbedded in the ground, and Sherlock started to make his way back to the palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all you readers, this story has already far surpassed my previously most popular fic (in hits). As always, comments and kudos are lovely and help inspire me to continue writing and sometimes even give me ideas to work with!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first swimming lesson, and then Sherlock is rude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, everyone, I've been really busy the past few weeks and was unable to write as much as I would have liked. This chapter is also a bit on the short side, but hopefully you'll all enjoy it!

The next time, as it happened, turned out to be only a week later. Sherlock had been eating breakfast when a servant walked in with the mail, as usual. However, unlike every other time, there was an envelope addressed to the young prince. It was made of simple, thick paper, quite cheap, and Sherlock was sure that if he'd known more about the papermakers of the region he'd be able to identify the envelope’s exact origins. 

He slit the top with his butter knife and pulled out a single piece of paper. In blocky handwriting it read: “I'm going to the lake today. Meet me there at noon?” The brief message closed with a scrawled “JW” and although the gardener had never mentioned his surname, Sherlock knew it couldn't be from anyone but John. 

“What's that?” Mycroft asked casually, opening his own correspondence. 

“Nothing. Just my violin tutor telling me to practice the concerto that I'm working on for this evening.” Sherlock smoothly fabricated a lie, though he would indeed be having a violin lesson later. 

After he excused himself from the breakfast table, he went to one of the smaller halls in the palace to practice. He didn't necessarily need to; he knew the piece back to front already, but he needed something to busy himself with until noon. 

Time passed quickly when he was absorbed in the music, and before he knew it, the clock's hands were displaying that wonderful acute angle that marked 11:45. He carefully packed up his instrument, careful to clean the sticky rosin off of the strings, and was on his way. 

The trip took longer than Sherlock had remembered, but before long, he was once again behind the same set of bushes that he had used as a hiding spot while he watched John. The gardener was already there, sitting in some shade on the rock and doing something with his hands. Sherlock stepped out from behind the branches and cleared his throat, hoping to catch John's attention without having to be awkward about it. 

Sure enough, the older boy looked up. “You came,” he said with a gentle smile. 

“Of course,” Sherlock shrugged, eying the cloth that John had laid over the flat surface of the boulder. “What have you got there?” He asked. 

“Um. Well, I don't know if you've eaten lunch, but I figured we could have a bit of a picnic, if you will.” John looked somewhat sheepish. He was cleaner than he'd been the other day, but as Sherlock stepped closer he could still smell the earthy scent of dirt and sweat on John's body, so he knew the gardener had been working earlier. 

“I haven't; that sounds…acceptable.” John smiled at this. 

“Would you like to go for a swim first, perhaps?” 

Sherlock stared at John, calculating. He did want to learn how to swim, but he didn't want to get naked in front of John. He remembered how muscular the other boy was, and how perfect his body looked, and thought in dismay of his own scrawny, pale self. Was the mortification worth the lesson? 

Looking at John’s patient, slightly amused expression, Sherlock made a decision. “Alright.” 

John grinned and began to unbutton his shirt. Suddenly Sherlock felt a sharp moment of uncertainty at his choice, but of course now it was too late. John turned around and continued undressing, revealing his tanned back and shoulders, then his buttocks and thighs, all the way down to his feet. Once he was completely naked, he jumped into the lake with a splash.   
“Lesson number one: you can jump anywhere before that branch, beyond that there's a huge rock.” Sherlock followed john’s finger to a branch that stretched off the shore and a few feet across the surface of the water. 

He nodded, slowly unbuttoning the clasps of his overshirt. With each article of clothing he removed, he felt more exposed and cold, despite the warm, nearly summer air. He could feel John's eyes on him, and he got into the water as quickly as possible. John had said he'd be able to touch the ground, so he was only somewhat worried about this first bit. 

The gardener had been correct, of course, and Sherlock stood on the squishy, slimy bottom of the lake uncomfortably. The water was a good temperature, he reckoned; nowhere as warm as the baths in the palace but not unbearably cold. 

“Right. D’you think you can just float on your front?” John stood a couple feet away.   
Sherlock shook his head slightly. According to his previous observations and Archimedes’ Principle, he should have no trouble doing what John asked, but something about the idea of having no immediate contact with anything solid was less than inviting. 

“Here, I'll help you.” John stepped closer, forming little ripples in the water as he moved. “Just lean forwards and let the water hold you up. I'll be holding you too, I promise you won't sink.” Sherlock was skeptical, but he tentatively lifted his feet from the lake-bed. 

Almost immediately, he planted them firmly back down. “I don't want to.” 

“It's alright, I promise I've got you. Look,” John placed his hands on Sherlock’s bony shoulders. “Once more now,” he urged.   
Sherlock swallowed, aware of the other boy’s hands on him. He did as John had suggested, letting himself fall down into the water. It was cold against his closed eyelids and face, and he became aware of one of John’s hands moving to his chest, pressing against his solar plexus and holding him up firmly. 

Sherlock’s skin prickled, surely from the cold water. He could feel his hair flowing around his face pleasantly like tendrils of a seagrass, and was almost able to forget John’s presence until he felt a tap on his back. 

He swing his feet back down and lifted his head, the water dripping down his now-straight hair. As he took a breath of air, he realized that he had been holding his breath, of course, for quite a while. 

“How was that?” John grinned, dropping his hand. 

“Alright, but I think that's enough for today,” Sherlock tried to even his breathing. 

John laughed. “That's fine. We can continue at a later date. Time for lunch?” 

The prince nodded, shaking some of the water out of his hair. He watched as John hoisted himself up out of the water, his strong arms flexing as they pushed against the rock. Sherlock clambered out after him, shyly hiding his naked body behind his hands. John was already half dressed, and had taken a seat against the same trunk they'd been sitting at before. He wordlessly looked away as Sherlock pulled on his trousers and sat at the tree opposite. 

“I've got sandwiches, if you'd like one,” John held out a wrapped bundle. Sherlock took it gratefully, feeling rather hungry despite the fact that he hadn't done very much excercise at all. He bit into it, watching John watch him. 

Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, he lost his balance and toppled off of the stone. John immediately stood up and hovered, concerned, over Sherlock. The young prince picked himself up of the ground mortified, and noticed a scrape gashed onto his forearm. 

“Oh, goodness,” John said. “Put some pressure on it to stop the bleeding.” 

“I know,” Sherlock snapped, stinging more from the humility of the tumble than from the wound itself. 

The older boy picked up his shirt and tore a strip off of the sleeve, then held up the fabric. “For a bandage,” he explained. “Come here.”

Sherlock was puzzled, since he'd noted that John had been wearing the same shirt every time they’d seen each other and clearly wasn't in the monetary position to go tearing up his clothes, but he kept his mouth shut and approached the other boy, offering his arm. John gingerly wrapped the cloth around the laceration twice, then tied it firmly and skillfully in a knot. 

When they were both once again seated, Sherlock asked, “How'd you know how to do that?” 

John looked up. “Sorry?” 

“The thing… with the pressure and the bandage. I mean, of course I knew it, from books and things, but how could you?”   
John seemed a bit taken aback. “It's not uncommon, you know, for people to know basic medical care.” He replied somewhat stiffly. “And besides, my mum was a healer in the village, back when she was, well, alive.” 

“I see.” 

John frowned, then stood up. “I should be going, I need to help make a new sty for Farmer Quinn, who's pigs were attacked by a wolf last night.” 

He gathered his clothes and things and left, without further farewell. Confused and maybe just the slightest bit hurt by his briskness, Sherlock also returned to the palace. He would have nothing to do but wait for his violin tutor to arrive later that afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kudos and amazing comments, I really appreciate it! I have a couple things in mind for the future of this story, and hopefully I'll be able to get them down on paper as soon as possible……


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter, but finally things are starting to pick up!  
> (Also, I'm on mobile so there may be many typos and a couple things are supposed to be italicized and they aren't. I'll try to get that fixed later.)

Spring ended and summertime came and went, the days growing shorter and the nights darker as the air began to get cold. Mycroft was still resisting the king’s attempts to decide on a princess for wedlock, but even Sherlock could see that his brother wouldn't be able to hold off the inevitable for much longer. 

On the other hand, the younger prince was dealing with the changes that were happening to his own body. His voice, which had begun to crack for the first time back before he met John, had dropped to a pleasant, deep baritone even lower than Mycroft's (which he was immensely pleased about). He had shot up, growing over an inch every month, and was now taller than John and about the same height as his brother. He was still thin, but his shoulders had broadened and his chest bulked up. He had also noticed, to his great embarrassment, much more activity of his lower half, and had had several nerve rackingly close encounters which led to further humiliation. 

Swimming lessons with John had continued, and now Sherlock was a pretty solid swimmer and able to keep up with his companion as they swam back and forth across a small, bay-like formation of the lake. Aware of the season ending, they were planning to do one last swim before it got too cold. 

One morning Sherlock received another letter in the mail, noting with excitement the familiar stationary. This had become his and John’s primary means of communication, since John was never consistently at any particular location. After he’d gotten the first letter, Sherlock had realized that somehow John had figured out his royal identity, but he wasn't bothered by it. Sometimes John would get irritated, claiming that Sherlock was oblivious because of his upbringing, which hurt, but Sherlock wasn't dull enough not to see that there was an element of truth to those words. 

This letter read the following: “The lake at noon for lunch and our final swim! See you there, JW” 

Mycroft, who strangely had a faint smile on his face as he read a letter of his own, was too absorbed to notice Sherlock stuff John’s note in his pocket and leave the table. He went up to his room, pulling out a wooden box from under his bed. This was where he kept each letter he received from John, and all though they were, for the most part, brief and to the point, he still liked to read through them every now and again. 

There were a couple which were his favourites, in which John had written something more personal. One of these came after Sherlock’s first swim, when John had gotten peeved and left. In the letter, he’d apologized for his abrupt departure, explaining why he did it. At first Sherlock had hated the letter, because it criticized him, but he grew to enjoy reading John’s words. 

The other was written later, after they'd strengthened their friendship over time. In it, John described an interesting insect that he’d found while working in the gardens. He said that he didn't know what it was and knew that kind of thing interested Sherlock, and he even drew a picture of the bug to go along with it. Sherlock had eagerly searched through his books, wanting to have something to report to John the next time they met, as well as purely out of curiosity. It turned out to be the relatively common Leptophyes punctatissima, or speckled cricket. Sherlock found it strange that John hadn't recognized the insect, considering how much time he spent outside, but when he asked, John insisted he hadn't known.

 

When the hands of the clock finally inched over to 11:50, the prince left his castle home and headed to the lake. He had something planned, something that he and John had discussed previously but never had the guts to do. By the shore of the lake, there was a large tree that hung over the water, and Sherlock had done some maths and figured out the right angle to leap from the tree and into the water below. They'd been jumping off the rock previously, but this would be much higher and much more fun. 

John was already there when Sherlock arrived, as usual. The day was sunny and warm, surely one of the last ones that they’d get before winter. 

“Hello,” he greeted. “Ready for your last swimming lesson?” 

This was somewhat of a joke, because lately the “lessons” hadn't been lessons at all. John said that there was nothing he could teach Sherlock anymore, so they just swam as equals. 

“Absolutely,” Sherlock replied, stripping down and jumping into the water. As his body matured, he found that it was safer not to watch as John undressed (it probably happened with anybody, he just never saw anybody else naked) so he became accustomed to be the one to go first. Once he was in the water, John closely followed, splashing Sherlock as he landed.

“Shall we have a race?” John asked. 

Sherlock agreed, and they lined up at the side of the bay. 

“Once there and once back.” They established the rules, and then they were off. 

As they swam, Sherlock and John made eye contact and pulled faces at each other with every other stroke. Before long, they were both laughing, trying not to choke as they continued swimming fiercely. They touched off the far end of the bay at the same time, and until the last few yards of the return, they were exactly matched. At the very end, John was somehow able to heave himself forward and touch the shore just a few moments before Sherlock. Still laughing, he declared himself the winner and congratulated Sherlock on a good race. The prince didn't mind losing to John, and besides, he knew his jump from the tree would more than make up for it. 

He finally mentioned it: “John, I'm going to jump from the tree.” 

John frowned. “I really don't think that's a good idea. We saw how high it was up there, and the rocks are too close.” He was referring to the time when they both climbed the tree with the intent of jumping, but got back down after seeing the altitude from up there. The rocks, which John had warned Sherlock of back on the first day, were plainly visible from the vantage point of the tree, hiding only a few feet below the surface of the water. 

Sherlock began to climb, finding toe and finger holds along the trunk. “It's fine, I've calculated the angle at which it's safe to jump.” 

John's frown deepened. “Sherlock, there's no way you can be sure of that. So many things could go wrong.” 

“But they won't John, they won't.” Sherlock was at the top now, and he stood out on the branch overlooking the lake. It was high, higher than he remembered, but he knew it was just his mind playing tricks on him. He couldn't back down now. 

“Sherlock…” John warned. “Get down.” His tone was firm, but Sherlock shook his head. 

“John, I'll be fine. I've calculated it.”  
“Your maths can't save you every time, Sherlock!” John shouted. “Stop. You don't have to prove anything to me, I'm going up there to get you.” 

“No!” Sherlock said quickly. “No. Stay right where you are. Keep your eyes fixed on me.” He inched along the branch, keeping a hand firmly on some smaller branches next to him. 

“Sherlock. Get down right now.” John made another move to follow him up the tree.  
“Stop, if you come up you're only going to make me mess up. I'm going to jump.” He had reached the end of the branch, and the water looked murky far below him. 

He let go of the small branch, balancing for a couple of seconds as he looked around one last time. There were no surprises, everything was going according to his calculations. Keeping his eyes open, he let himself fall off of the tree. 

John's cry of his name filled his ears as the rocks grew closer and closer. He finally realized that he had gravely, gravely miscalculated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for Sherlock's unrealistically rapid puberty, I needed time to pass very quickly :)  
> Thanks again to all of you for your lovely comments, and for making this my most popular fic so far!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the immensely long wait, I have not forgotten about this fic! I've just been pretty busy with other things but hopefully I can get back to it soon. This chapter is from John's point of view, so hopefully you all like that!

“SHERLOCK!” I screamed in horror as I watched his body plummet towards what I knew were dozens of sharp rocks, lying deceivingly under the calm water like a sleeping dragon. There were so many dragons in my life, and never had I wished to have the power to kill one as fervently as I did now. 

He made no sound as he fell, that terrible, stubborn, brilliant boy, and before I knew it he was under the water and out of sight. Coming quickly to my senses, I dove in after him, not bothering with removing my trousers. 

The murky water made it difficult to see, so I swam slower than I would have liked and felt around with my hands. After a few moments of frantic searching I felt nothing but the sharp rock. Where was he? I could almost hear my heart beating, it's panicked palpitations reverberating through the water. Finally, my hand glanced off of something soft. Grabbing desperately at the blurry form I could just barely make out, I managed —thank god— to get a firm hold on Sherlock’s arm. 

I became aware of my lungs protesting as they gasped for oxygen, and I had to turn off that part of my brain and ignore it to tug Sherlock up. He was somehow impossibly heavy, his limp form dragging through the water as I fought my way up to the surface. 

I finally blasted up and out of the lake, struggling to pull Sherlock’s still form up over my shoulders and then on to the shore. 

He was so pale, my god, and there was blood leaking all over his face, streaming down and diluting in the rivulets of lake water from a wound I could not see. Oh god, he wasn't breathing, he wasn't breathing. 

“Please, please Sherlock…” I begged as I pumped his chest. I remembered something that I had seen when I was little, when a man fell into the river near home. When his waterlogged body was finally fished out, the doctor had pushed his chest and blown air into his mouth. I remember watching in horror, just a little toddler realizing how powerless we really all were against the cruelty of the world. It had been too late for the man, too late to save him. 

I prayed desperately to any god that might be out there, anyone who could save this boy that was so important to me. I turned his face up, opening his mouth with my hands and holding his nose shut. I pressed my own mouth to his, breathing, breathing my life into him. Breathe, Sherlock, breathe with me. Please. 

I fell into a rhythm of pump, breathe, pump, breathe. My own breath was becoming ragged now, and numbly I noticed something dripping down and splashing into the blood on his face. My tears. 

It's been too long. Too long, and nothing is happening. My mind was a silent chaos, somehow incredibly busy yet completely disconnected at the same time. 

I couldn't save save him. I couldn't save him, just like I hadn't been able to save my mother, like I couldn't keep my sister from dying little every day, like I hadn't been able to revive the drowned man when I was young. I was given a second chance, a second chance and a third chance and a fourth chance, and every time, I couldn't do it. I couldn't save him, and now he was dead. The one person, the one thing that was keeping me going, was dead, and I couldn't save him. 

I fell over his body in despair. I felt so heavy, impossibly so, like the very sky was pushing me and crushing me against the ground, yet my own body was empty and void of everything. The world was silent, even the lake seemed to have gone quiet. I rested my head on his chest, his smooth, white chest, listening to the low beating there. Beating. Beating…? 

I shot up, crawling over him. Was it possible? I almost didn't dare to put my wet hand under his nose, almost too afraid to find that he was dead after all, but no! A ghost of breath, lightly caressing my finger. He was still unconscious, probably from the head trauma, but that didn't matter, he was alive! My Sherlock was alive. 

I grabbed my shirt and wrapped it tightly around his head, noting in the back of my mind how it was the second time that I sacrificed my clothing for his medical needs. I picked him up carefully, trying not to disturb him too much, and began to carry his light body away from the lake. I knew there must be a good healer at the palace, and Sherlock should be returned to his father as soon as possible anyways.   
The trip seemed to take ages, and Sherlock’s naked body kept slipping from my hold, so it was a nerve-wracking walk as well as a long one. 

As I passed the training grounds of the royal knights, I caught sight of whom I knew to be the elder prince, Sherlock’s brother. “Your Highness,” I shouted, hoping to attract his attention. He looked up, his eyes briefly searching around him, before landing on me. 

“Oh my. That's not… surely that's not the prince?” Prince Mycroft frowned as he inspected Sherlock’s limp body. 

“I'm afraid so, Your Highness.” I grunted, adjusting my grip around Sherlock’s torso. 

“Come with me.” Prince Mycroft turned and began walking in the direction he had come, surprisingly calm. He led me to the training tent, motioning for me to wait as he ducked into it. I heard murmurs as he exchanged a few words with someone in the tent, and a few seconds later he returned. 

“Bring him in here.” I walked into the tent, then set Sherlock down on the offered cot. There was another man in there, whom I recognized from watching the knights train. He must have been the leader, since he got his own tent. 

“Sir Gregory, would you run and fetch the medic?” Prince Mycroft turned to the knight, who quickly bowed and scurried off.   
“Tell me,” the prince knelt beside his brother. “What on earth happened?”   
I told him how Sherlock had jumped off of a tree while swimming, and then accidentally hit some rocks. I explained that I didn't know the extent of his injuries, but I had bandaged his head and recovered his breath. 

The elder prince was silent, still investigating Sherlock. After a few more seconds he leaned back, frowning. 

At that moment, Sir rushed back in, closely followed by the an older gentleman who must have been the court medic. He placed his handbag on the ground beside him and lowered himself down to examine the patient and Prince Mycroft and I told him the story.

After a couple minutes of tense silence in the tent, the doctor clambered to his feet, joints popping and bones creaking. “It's a good thing the impact was after he had already sunk quite deep, or he would be dead now.” I tried to erase the image of the blood streaming across his face from my mind. 

“And he wasn't breathing when you rescued him, correct?” The medic turned to me. 

“He was not, sir.” I shook my head slightly. 

“Thank goodness that you knew what to do. You saved his life.” He put a hand on my shoulder, but I barely registered the compliment. 

“Excuse me sir, but will he be unconscious long?” I asked. 

My heart lurched as his face drooped. “I am afraid I don't know. There's been severe damage to his head, but he's still young. I have no way of knowing exactly what was damaged, and all we can do is hope his body heals itself. It could be a minute, could be a day, could be a week or a month or it could never happen. I'm sorry.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's comatose revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is obviously heavily inspired by the events and style of The Abominable Bride, so if you haven't watched that yet, you should before reading this. It's a bit confusing, because it jumps around quite a lot, but basically since it's Sherlock's dream sequence he doesn't question anything. Also, I couldn't resist adding my favourite character to the story… Hope you enjoy!  
> (TW for some body horror and blood)

_I look at the map in my head, pleased to find that it should take only 2 minutes and 28 seconds to arrive. I'm comforted by the sound of Redbeard’s paws clicking against the cobbles as he runs beside me._

_Almost there, almost there… my long coat billows out from behind me as I make a right turn. All of a sudden, my surroundings look unfamiliar. I try to look back at my mental map, but am unable to pinpoint our location. We're at an intersection, and tall buildings line the streets. I scan them, hoping to see something that I recognize._

_Noticing a lack of sound, I glance down and am alarmed when I don't see Redbeard. He was here just a moment ago, how could he have disappeared like that?_

_There's something about one of the buildings that is putting me off. I can't quite place my finger on it, so I step closer to take a look. As I approach, the building seems to split in half, swinging open like a door to reveal an empty black space behind it. How peculiar, it seemed to have been just an empty facade._

_As I inspect it, a figure begins to emerge from the darkness. It's a woman wearing an elaborate white dress, and she has a veil over her face. I’m chilled when I see her, though I don't know why. She raises the two handheld cannons she has in her pale grip and flings the veil off her face. She's standing in front of me, and now I'm facing a pale, almost ghostlike lady with a smear of red like a gaping wound over her mouth._

_Distantly, I wish that my dog was still with me. I watch in horror as this woman brandishes her weapons. “You??” She breathes. “You?” Her heavily made-up eyes pop and she sounds more than a bit mad. “You? Or me?”_

_In a swift movement she's turned one of the weapons towards herself, and fires it into her mouth. Her blood spatters the street, and when I look down, I see that it is mirrored on my own shirt. A wound, just like her lipstick, cuts deep into my chest._

_“Sherlock,” My brother steps up beside me. “This is very important. You need to decide which way to fall.” I blink at him, confused. “Sherlock, listen to me. After all, falling is just like flying, but with a more permanent destination.”_

_And with that, he's gone, and I'm falling, falling down. The spray of the waterfall brushes my cheeks, washing away all the blood on my body. It feels like an eternity until I reach the bottom, and then finally I plunge into the cold water. It's quiet under the surface, all of the turmoil and noise silenced by the water’s cool embrace. I feel some weeds brush against my bare leg but ignore it, focusing instead on the way the light from above filters through the water and shines in patches against my naked skin and the way my long hair moves and flows, not unlike the seaweeds themselves._

_I feel no urge to breathe, no want or need to fight my way back to the surface. A waterweed prods insistently against my calf, then solidifies into white fingers. I'm not alarmed, I'd been expecting this. The hand reaches up, circling my lower thigh, pulling him out of the murky depths._

_“Sherlock.” It's not his voice that calls. “Sherlock, please wake up.”_

_“Sherlock,” and there it is, that familiar Irish lilt._

_“Jim.” I reply, finding the name pouring off of my tongue._

_“But Sherlock, you're dead.” He raises his eyebrows in a mockery of concern, pressing closer. “Blew your heart out.”_

_“I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.” I let him do what he wants, not needing to protest, still not alarmed. I know that I'm safe._

_“But we both know that's not_ quite _true, is it?” His face is now inches away from mine, and he reaches into my chest through the hole that remains there. He pulls his hand back out, and now he's holding my beating heart. I'm a touch surprised to see it, having forgotten, indeed, having made myself forget, that it existed. But he is right._

_“Sherlock, please. For me.” I hear the voice again, and I know what I have to do._

_“Sherlock, stay here with me. Look, we both have parts missing. What a lovely couple we would make.” Jim turns, shows me the hole in the back of his head._

_“Thank you, Jim.” My lungs start to protest, and I'm almost ready._

_He's confused now, as he will always be when it comes to matters like this. I used to be confused, too. But now I see. That's what sets us apart._

_“You're right, I do have a heart. And it's a living, beating thing in me, and that's why you stay here while I go.”_

_I see the anguish on his face as I take his hand and press it to my chest, taking back the heart that I always had deep inside me._

_“No, Sherlock! Don't leave me here alone!” He cries out as I begin to swim up, up towards the light._

_“Find your heart, Moriarty. You've lost your brain, but you can still find your heart.” I'm surrounded by light now, and I burst out of the water. I shoot up, higher than I thought possible, leaving behind this godforsaken excuse of a world. The air rushes by, drying my skin, and I taste salt on my lips. I fly towards the sky, up and up and up, and then all is quiet._

I lie contentedly on my sheets, listening to the sounds of bells as someone outside my window celebrates one thing or another. The door creaks, and I open my eyes to see him step in. He doesn't know I'm awake yet, and I can see the worry etched into his young face. He looks older than before, and there are bags under his eyes. My heart, oh, my heart, fills at the sight. He raises his eyes, finally meeting mine. He lets out a little gasp, inhaling sharply.

“Sherlock?” He rushes to my side.

“John.” My voice is rough from disuse, but he knows. He knows my heart is now open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! I think this is gonna be pretty much the end of the story. I may do an epilogue later, but this might just be the final installment. I hope you enjoyed it, leave a comment with thoughts or if you think I should continue! Thank you to everyone who's hung on until now, your comments and kudos make my day!


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, it's finished! A touch of a bonus pairing here, sorry for those of you who don't like this particular pairing (no spoilers!)

  
_~~Two years later~~_

The banquet hall was crowded, full of people hoping for a chat with the king or the new groom. They were all noblemen and ladies, but Sherlock knew they were just like everyone else: power-hungry, scheming idiots. He had no wish to spend any more time than was absolutely necessary with them, and this whole wedding business made his skin crawl. Yesterday when he was teasing his brother about it, Mycroft had explained that the matrimonial union was simply political, nothing else, and apparently the princess was aware of those terms.

Sherlock didn't particularly care for the princess, which made the experience that much worse. Trapped for hours in this hall, occasionally seeing John but being unable to talk to him, having to accompany his father and brother as they greeted all the guests. What a terrible waste of his time.

After they had been fussed over by every single person in the room, the king finally said that Sherlock could go off on his own. Leaving Mycroft to dance with his bride, the young prince maneuvered around the sea of richly-adorned bodies looking for John. He finally caught sight of the other boy, clad in his deep blue tunic and bearing the coat of arms like all of the other knights.  
  
He was dancing with some young thing, a silly girl who must have been one of the only guests shorter than John. Sherlock snorted, but he noticed how easy and fluid John’s steps were. Those dancing lessons he'd given him were paying off.

John was faced the other way, the girl's face peeking over his shoulder. Sherlock waited for them to turn so he could catch John's eye. After a few measures, the pair slowly began to pivot, and then Sherlock was finally able to make eye contact. He raised an eyebrow, and John’s face split into a grin. As the song was ending, Sherlock saw him exchange a few words with his dance partner, then give a quick bow before weaving through the other dancers towards him.

When John arrived, he was slightly out of breath. “Sherlock!” He panted. “I didn't think I'd be seeing you this early.”

“I hope you're not disappointed,” Sherlock smiled.

“Of course not, silly. Let's go somewhere quiet.” John grabbed Sherlock’s elbow and began to lead him to the end of the hall. “I know just the place,” he said, with a half smile on his face.

“This is my home, shouldn't I be the one leading you around?” The prince playfully wriggled out of John's grip and switched their positions. “Besides, if you're going where I think you are, then this way is faster.” He swiped aside one of the many grand tapestries that decorated the celebration hall, revealing a small door with a flourish.

John tried and failed to hide his grin behind an eye roll, then followed Sherlock through the doorway. It led into a small, dimly lit foyer, which in turn connected to a simple dinner hall. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time it had been used; since he was a child he would sometimes come to the quiet room to have more space to play with Redbeard without anyone bothering him.

“How did you learn of this place?” Sherlock whispered as he and John entered the foyer. He knew it was silly, but something about the dark made it feel wrong to speak at a normal volume.

“I may or may not have asked Prince Mycroft,” John muttered back, causing Sherlock to snort in response. They made their way towards the entrance to the hall itself, which was lit softly by the golden glow of a few candles around the perimeter of the room. Sherlock noted the freshness of the candles as he passed, thinking it slightly odd considering most people, even the servants, having been otherwise occupied for the past couple of ours, as well as the fact that they weren't expecting anybody in that particular, unused hall that day.

Motioning for John to be quiet, he listened closely to the small shuffling noises coming from inside the room. They were steps, but very quiet, short steps. One, no, two people, tiptoeing? That didn't make any sense…

Suddenly, catching the dim swells of music drifting through the wood panels of the wall, he understood. Of course, dancing. The obvious answer, really. But who could be dancing here, while there was a party just in the adjacent room?

Taking John's hand and shielding the smaller boy’s body behind his own, he peeked through the threshold into the hall. He saw the figures of the two dancers, illuminated by the warm touch of the candlelight and sort of melded in together as one. He couldn't tell who they were; he would have to wait until one of them turned his way. After a few moments, like back at the party, the pair swayed in such a way that one was facing out towards Sherlock.

He was surprised, in the least, to see that it was his own brother. Mycroft wasn't looking up, instead having his face turned down into his partner’s shoulder. That being said… the draping fabric that he had interpreted as a lady’s gown was obviously nothing more than Mycroft's royal robes, which meant that the other dancer was wearing a very familiar tunic, the same tunic that he saw when he turned back to look at John.

Mycroft, dancing privately with a knight, at his own wedding? At that moment, when Sherlock glanced back, he made eye contact with his brother. Mycroft looked alarmed for a second, but his quickly face softened, presumably when he saw it was only Sherlock. The younger prince watched his brother turn his head to whisper something to his knight partner, who briefly murmured back.

“Brother dear, we invite you and John to join us,” Mycroft raised his voice, calling out. He had never said anything about John to Mycroft, but Sherlock wasn't at all surprised that he had figured it out. His brother was smart, he had to admit.

“Have you been practicing your dancing?” Sherlock turned to John, smiling.

“I have indeed,” John smiled back sweetly, the candles bathing his skin in gold.

“Care to have one more lesson?”

“It would be my pleasure.” John offered his arm, just as Sherlock taught him.

Sherlock let John lead even though he was much shorter, since that was how he'd learned, but after a few minutes, John lay his blond head against Sherlock’s chest and wrapped his arms tight around him. Sherlock similarly enveloped John, resting his own head on top of the shorter boy’s. Neither of them was leading anymore, they were just one body, one dancer swaying slowly in time to the strains of music coming from the true banquet.

Sherlock caught Mycroft’s gaze again, around the greying hair of his partner (that knight, of course, the one whose name he could never remember. Obviously, obviously). Mycroft was smiling, his face gentle and unguarded like never before. Maybe this knight was good for him after all. Just like Sherlock’s own knight, his John, was good for him. The prince and the gardener, who would have thought.

_The End._

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all of you that have stayed with me through the entire creation of this story, as well as to those who just read the entire thing today. All of your comments have been so sweet and thoughtful, and really kept my spirits up through the writing process. Thanks again!


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